“You can stay,” she squeezed out, and a shudder rolled through her. “I want you to stay with me, Joe.”
“I’m staying,” I replied, expelling a frustrated breath. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Later that night, as I drove us home from the cinema in Mahon Point, I watched from the corner of my eye, as Molloy stared out the passenger window, clearly lost in thought, as Bell X1’s Eve, The Apple Of My Eye played on the local radio station.
“I’ll drive you home,” I told her, breaking the silence. “And I’ll walk home from your place.”
She swung her gaze to me. “You’re not staying the night?”
“Not tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because if I wanted to get the cold shoulder, then I can get plenty of those at home,” I replied, hand tightening on the wheel.
“It’s not like that, Joe,” she croaked out. “It’s not.”
“Then what’s it like, Molloy?” I demanded hoarsely. “Huh? What’s happening with you?”
“Nothing,” she whispered, retreating back to her perch of staring out the window and ignoring me. “I love you, Joe.”
“Yeah, and I love you back,” I admitted, feeling frustrated and pissed off and anxious all in one breath. “But I don’t understand what’s happening here. With you. Between us. I don’t fucking like it.”
“Don’t go home tonight,” she said, after a long stretch of silence. “Please.”
“I’m not staying at your house.”
She turned to look at me. “Why?”
I shook my head. “I already told you.”
“Then can I stay at your house?”
“Molloy.” I released a pained sigh. “Don’t.”
“Please.” Reaching across the console she placed her hand on my jean-clad thigh. “I know I’m holding back, okay? I know. I’m just…” Releasing a pained growl, she shook her head and reached a hand up to swat what I presumed was a tear from her cheek. “Ugh, why am I such a fucking girl?”
“Are you crying?”
“No.”
“Molloy?”
“I’m being stupid.”
Throwing on my indicator, I waited for a break in traffic before pulling off to the side of the road and throwing on the hazard lights.
Killing the engine, I turned to face her. “Okay, you need to start talking to me.”
“Really, I’m fine,” she sobbed, batting tears left, right, and center, as they dripped onto her cheeks. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” she half-laughed, half-sobbed, as tears continued to fall from her long lashes. “See?” Wiping her eyes with the back of her hands, she smiled across the seat at me and said, “I’m totally fine.”
“Jesus. No, you’re not.” Pushing my seat back as far as it went, I unfastened my seatbelt and reached over to unfasten hers before pulling her into my arms. “Come here.”
“I’m fine,” she full on cried now, sobbing uncontrollably, as she buried her face in my neck. “This is ridiculous.”
“You’re not pregnant, are ya?” I joked, wrapping her up in my arms.
“Could you imagine?” she joked back, still crying.
“Fuck no,” I chuckled. “I think I’d rather open the door and lie down in the traffic.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not,” she replied, laughing almost manically, before another batch of sobs racked through her. “It’s probably just period hormones or something.”
I’M AN ADDICT, YOU’RE A BITCH
AOIFE
My pitiful attempt at telling Joey about our little situation had resulted in him indirectly admitting that he would rather play with traffic on the M8 motorway than father a child with me.
Joking or not, it wasn’t a risk that I was willing to take, especially when Friday night traffic was so heavy.
By the time we made it back to his house, I was fresh out of tears and he was fresh out of patience.
“I don’t know, Molloy,” he said, parking the car, after I finished giving him a detailed rundown of the woes of womanhood and premenstrual syndrome, literally anything to buy myself more time from having to tell him the truth. “It’s not my area of expertise, but surely they can give you a prescription for that.”
“You think I need a prescription for mood swings?”
“No, not a prescription, per say,” he hedged, climbing out of the car. “More like a light tranquilizer.”
“Well, you’d know all about those,” I huffed, stepping out and slamming my door shut. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Forget about it being light; a horse tranquilizer should do it,” he muttered, slinging an arm over my shoulder. “Come on, cranky.”
Sighing, I slid my hand into his back pocket, leaned into his side, and said, “I’m sorry for being such a bitch to you.”
“Meh. I’m an addict, you’re a bitch,” he mused, pulling me close. “No relationship is perfect.”
I laughed. “It works, though, right?”
“Right.” Grinning, he leaned down and kissed me, as we rounded the garden wall and walked up the driveway. “Two of a very fucked up kind.”
“Hey, guys.” Shannon greeted us in the doorway, with a sobbing Sean on her hip, and I felt my boyfriend stiffen when his eyes landed on her face.
Her very black and blue face.
“What happened?” Joey demanded, moving straight for his siblings. Scooping Sean into his arms, he quickly led his sister into the house, while I hurried after them.
“He lost it,” Shannon explained, cracking her knuckles anxiously. “Over that picture in the paper of me and Johnny Kavanagh. He wouldn’t stop, Joe. No matter how much I begged him.” With her small hands trembling, she walked over to the cooker, and retrieved a small foil-covered plate. “Mam came in and pulled him off me,” she whispered, sniffling, as she removed the foil and put the plate in the microwave to heat up. “But then he hit her, too.”
“He hit Mam?” Joey’s voice was deathly cold. “She’s five months pregnant.”
“I know,” Shannon sobbed, rubbing her swollen cheek. “When he left, he took everything with him. He filled up the car with everything he could get his hands on – he even took the television in the sitting room.”
“I paid for that,” Joey bit out, body thrumming with tension, but trying to steady himself, as the small toddler in his arms clung tightly to his neck. Rubbing Sean’s back in small, circular motions, he looked at his sister and asked, “Where’s Mam now?”
“The boys are in bed,” she hurried to tell him. “They eventually passed out, but I can’t get this little guy to stop crying long enough to go to sleep.”
“I’ll sort him,” Joey replied before repeating, “Where’s Mam?”
Shannon flinched. “Joe…”
“Where’s Mam, Shannon?”
“Gone,” she squeezed out. “She left us.”
“Left you?” He shook his head. “Left you how?”